How Kurt Hummel Got His Groove Back
by lifeluver
Summary: Finn's having an existential crisis and I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm destined to be an average, unremarkable cog in the machine for the rest of my adult life. So I'd say we're on an upswing. AU after 3x22


"We're out of food again," Finn announces from the doorway. Kurt grunts in reply.

"It's your turn to go shopping."

"I went last time. Go away."

"No, last time you said it was Sam's turn, and Sam said it was my turn, and we ended up eating stale pizza."

"That was yesterday, Finn."

"Yeah, and since no one went shopping, we're out of food again."

"Technically that means we're out of food _still_."

Something whacks him on his right shoulder. Kurt peels one eye open to investigate.

"You threw your toothbrush at me," he says, lifting it with between his thumb and middle finger and eyeing it with distaste.

"I'm _hungry._"

"Then go shopping or starve. Either way, leave me out of it."

"You're going to regret this moment if I die in battle, you know."

"That argument lost its effect the thirty seventh time you used it. Now go away, I'm busy."

xx

The real problem, Kurt realizes on the third day of being locked in his bedroom and subsisting primarily on beef jerky and bitterness, is that he had been under the impression that he was the hero of the story.

It wasn't really his fault, he reasons. After all, he had been conditioned by modern American filmmaking to expect certain things out of life. Namely, that the outcast teenager who overcomes adversity will, in the end, be rewarded with the bright future they had deserved all along.

And she was. How the hell was he supposed to know that he was just the goofy sidekick in Rachel Berry's coming of age story?

xx

"Of course we're fine, Dad. We're eighteen years old, we're perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves."

Kurt narrows his eyes at the windowsill. There's a bee perched on it, has been for over two hours. It's most likely dead. He's like, seventy percent sure its dead.

He raises the shoe (Finn's, no way is he risking anything designer) to attack. His arm hovers in mid air, a good two feet away from the (almost certainly dead) bee.

"I know you two are having a rough time, what with the breakup and the schools. We're just worried about you two."

"You have nothing to be concerned about, we're absolutely fine," Kurt says, inching out slowly from underneath his desk where he's been taking cover for the past hour or so, his arm still poised to strike.

"Why are you whispering?"

"No reason." The bee twitches. Or maybe that was the wind. Either way, he lowers his arm, sensing defeat.

"All I'm saying is you two need to get out of the house a bit. Remember that life goes on. Why don't you go to the mall?"

"Hm. I'll think about it. How long would you say the life span of an average bee is?"

"You're _absolutely sure_ you're okay, son?"

xx

Puck drops by unannounced on a Tuesday. Or possibly a Wednesday.

"Yo, Hudson!" he shouts as he lets himself in, and Kurt makes a mental note to figure out who the hell entrusted Noah Puckerman with a key to their house. "I brought the Cheetos, what's the emergency?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. Finn can be remarkably resourceful when he's trying to avoid errands. Speaking of, his stepbrother has been disturbingly quiet for the past few hours. Not even the promise of artificial cheese and empty calories can rouse him from his room.

The (possibly zombie) bee has forced Kurt to relocate to the living room couch, and Puck sticks his head around the corner. "Sup, Hummel," he says by way of greeting.

Kurt doesn't bother to reply, but halfheartedly raises an arm.

"Still moping then? Man this place is like a funeral home, I don't know how Evans can stand it."

The couch sinks slightly as Puck plops down onto it. "Don't feel too bad. You can always go to community college with me next semester." Kurt muffles a scream in the cushion and Puck laughs like the asshole he is.

"When was the last time you left the house?"

Kurt considers this for a moment. "What's today?"

"Dude, you are so far gone. D'you know you smell like a guy right now?" Kurt wrinkles his nose, but there's no denying it. He really needs to shower. He attempts to get up, but the last reserves of his energy had been wasted moving from his bed to the living room.

"Cheeto?" Kurt accepts the proffered snack and reflects on just how far he's fallen.

"Tell no one of this," he warns, and gingerly takes a bite.

xx

Blaine comes by sometime during the first week after graduation and knocks on the door for seventeen minutes before Finn loses their battle of wills and opens it, grumbling obscenities all the while.

"You've been busy," he says, closing Kurt's bedroom door behind him, a green plastic bag dangling from his wrist. "Or, I assume so, given that you've been ignoring all of my calls, texts, emails and Facebook messages for the past three days."

"I've been ill," Kurt answers haughtily, waving a hand at the discarded tissues littering his floor. Blaine raises a skeptical eyebrow, but doesn't comment.

"I know the whole NYADA thing," Kurt turns up the volume on his iPod speakers and Blaine raises his voice in turn, "has got you down, but that's no reason to cut me out. I love you, and if you're going through a rough time then I want to be there and, hang on, is this a tribute album?"

"My misery isn't worthy of the actual Mariah. Just a pale imitation."

"Oh for the love of-. Turn this crap off, take a shower, turn on your phone and get out of the house Kurt."

With that Blaine stomps off in a huff. Blaine likes to stomp off, and Kurt understands the therapeutic quality of a good huff, so he doesn't stop him.

Plus, he leaves behind a carton of chocolate ice cream, indicating that the original plan had been to indulge Kurt in his moping _before_ trying to snap him out of it. Kurt is a fan of plans so he opens it and, feeling especially magnanimous, calls Finn in.

xx

But that was over a week ago, and Blaine hasn't been by since. If he's hoping to smoke Kurt out, he's got another thing coming.

"Have you ever noticed," Finn says as he races Sam around the virtual track for the sixth time, "that life is entirely pointless?"

"Hm."

"Like, we're all gonna wake up one day and be dead. Or like, a giant bug. And what's the point?"

Kurt allows himself a moment to process this. Then he drags his elbows under himself and props up on the pillows to stare at his stepbrother. "Finn. Have you been reading Kafka?"

"Rachel left her English books here. They're all I have left of her."

"Actually those are mine. Summer reading and all. I was wondering why you were sleeping with them under your pillow."

Finn blinks at Sam, who takes the opportunity to ram Finn's virtual car into a pole and speed off. Personally, Kurt thinks this should engage some sort of airbag response, but the boys had not taken kindly to his earlier critiques of their game so he keeps silent.

"Well. Still. Life is meaningless."

"You have a point. Everything in the universe is completely arbitrary."

"You guys need to cheer up," Sam says, pausing the game and dropping his controller on the couch near Kurt's foot before walking to the kitchen. "You're acting like a couple of girls."

"Sexist," Kurt drawls, picking up the controller and restarting the game. Finn doesn't seem to notice, too absorbed is he in pondering the futile nature of life.

Sam pokes his head back around the door, his face pinched. "What happened to the last stick of butter?"

"Who cares? We don't have any bread to eat it on."

"Exactly."

Kurt considers this. He looks over at Finn.

"I really don't want to wake up as a bug."

"Right," Sam declares. "Well I'm _arbitrarily_ deciding that we're going shopping. Now."

Which is how they wind up at the Food'n'Stuff with Kurt idly pushing the cart while Finn and Sam bicker over which artery-clogging snack to buy.

"What do you think, Fruit Roll-Ups or Fruit by the Foot?" Kurt glares at them. "Yeah you're right, might as well get both. We don't want to have to come back."

With a flash of inspiration Kurt swerves the cart around and grabs an economy sized pack of toilet paper. This earns him a high five and the title '_genius.'_

By the time they've made it through the last aisle Finn has to take over steering duties as neither Sam nor Kurt can see over the top of their mountain of junk. The cashier purses her lips as she begins ringing them up.

"Do you think maybe we should've gotten the frozen pizza?" Sam asks worriedly. Kurt is saved from having to relive the delivery vs. store-bought debate for a third time by the cashier announcing, "I'm sorry sir, your credit card has been declined."

All three boys freeze in place.

"Run it again," Kurt says, his hands twitching. She does. Same result.

Finn digs out his wallet and pulls out his card carefully, as though his balance might fall out the side.

"I'm sorry, sir," she repeats a moment later, and she does not look very sorry at all.

They look at Sam. "Uh. I think I have a ten somewhere."

"Boys! What a coincidence, how are your summers?"

"Mr. Schue!" Finn grabs their former teacher by the collar and hugs him animatedly over his shopping cart. "How is my favorite teacher ever?"

Kurt thinks he might know why Finn wasn't accepted to Pace University, not that he's about to say that aloud.

"I'm great. Having a little trouble, here?" Kurt gives him his most sheepish smile. It feels strange; he's rarely sheepish.

"There must be some mistake at the bank, you know how it is," he says in a tone aiming for world-weary and hitting something more like desperate.

"Ah, of course. Well let me." Mr. Schue pulls out his wallet and grins winningly at the cashier. "Got to keep my favorite glee club alumni well-fed!"

"That'll be $318.93, sir."

Mr. Schue goes distinctly green around the gills.

"Er, maybe we could lose the Gushers?"

xx

By the time they pull into the driveway Kurt is exhausted by his foray into the civilized world and ready to crawl back onto the couch for another six to ten days without disruption. Finn, now fed and content, has returned to his previous morose state.

Sam on the other hand, has taken on the personality of a mother hen. "Aren't either of you guys worried about the fact that we have no money?" he demands, lugging three shopping bags in each hand.

Finn kicks the garage door dully and Kurt sighs at it. With a grunt of annoyance Sam shoves the bags into Kurt's hands and tugs at the handle until it lifts up.

"We have food, what's the problem?" Finn says, when it become apparent that Sam is in fact looking for an answer.

"We have food _now._ Your parents are going to be in DC for the rest of the summer."

"What does it matter? We're all just going to-"

"Turn into giant bugs, yes, you've _mentioned._ God, the two of you are worse than my little brother and sister. If I knew I'd be babysitting all summer, I would have asked to get paid."

xx

"How's everything going down there?" Burt asks, his voice tinny through the connection. Kurt twists the spiral cord between his fingers; his dad had almost thrown it out a few years ago but Kurt had insisted it was _retro chic_.

"Finn's having an existential crisis and I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm destined to be an average, unremarkable cog in the machine for the rest of my adult life. So I'd say we're on an upswing."

"Hmph. That so." He sounds skeptical, but to be fair he doesn't know about the butter incident, so really, he lacks perspective.

Sam gestures frantically at him; Kurt waves him away.

"Yes. In fact I've been teaching Finn and Sam how to cook." There's a snort somewhere behind him, as though Sam doesn't think microwaving marshmallows really qualifies as a culinary lesson. "Which reminds me, when we were shopping the other day we had a bit of trouble with our credit cards…"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that." Kurt can hear the smile in his dad's voice, and that does not bode well. "Carole and I have discussed it and we've decided that you boys need a kick in the pants. To get you out of your rut. So we're cutting you off."

Images of summer collections swarm before his eyes. He feels slightly faint. "Wh-what? Why? I haven't gone over my limit in _ages_."

"Like you said, you guys are adults now. So I figure, adults have jobs. Go on now, time to start plugging away in that machine. Night, son." Kurt can hear the echoes of laughter as the phone clicks off.

Sam looks at him questioningly, but Kurt just holds up a hand, the universal sign of 'fuck off, I'm considering the relative merits of patricide for life insurance vs. entering the world of the working poor.'

xx

"'Has the high score at the pinball machine at the Westfield County Mall' does not belong on your resume, Finn."

"Why not? I put it under special skills."

"Because you're not applying for a job playing pinball. And while we're at it, 'can hold breath for over two minutes' is not a skill."

"Sure it is! I practiced!"

"…Well that explains quite a bit."

"Yeah? Well how does 'Predicted the Project Runway winner six seasons running' count as a skill then?"

"It shows I have a keen eye for up and coming fashion."

"You're applying for a job at Sheets'n'Things_._"

xx

They do not, as it turns out, get jobs at Sheets'n'Things. They do, however, receive lifetime bans from Sheets'n'Things.

Kurt is pretty sure this qualifies as the single worst job interview in Lima history.

"What."

"I don't want to talk about it," Finn grumbles, slamming the car door shut with unnecessary force.

"The fuck."

"Well how was I supposed to know they'd still remember me?"

"I."

"And besides, it was Puck who started the fire. _He_ should be the one banned."

"_Out_."

xx

They have significantly better luck at the Lima Bean. Kurt takes the time to wonder how 'was not chased out of the premises by a broom wielding Howard Bamboo' came to represent an improvement in his luck.

"And why do you want to work at the Lima Bean?" the harried manager asks them as he sits down across the table. He has a coffee stain on his right sleeve; Kurt sees his life flash before his eyes.

"Well," he starts in his most adult voice. "I." Unfortunately he hasn't thought this far in advance.

"We both really like coffee. A lot." Finn interjects, conveniently ignoring the fact that the last time he drank coffee he spit it out all over the kitchen sink.

"And we're both regular patrons at this establishment. Can't find better coffee anywhere!" Except Starbucks, but that doesn't seem like the thing to say during an interview.

"Hm. Right. Well we need a busboy and a barista."

"I'll be the barista. I have more experience with customer service." Finn gapes at him; Kurt kicks him under the table.

Fifteen minutes and one signed release form (the product of a rather dodgy cappuccino maker according to the manager) later and the Hummel-Hudson boys are gainfully employed.

They stare at each other out on the sidewalk, the bustling shoppers jostling them slightly. "Well," Kurt starts.

"Back to bed?"

"Definitely."

xx

Their first day is…trying.

Due to circumstances completely beyond their control ("You could've stopped for gas any of the six times I told you we were low, you know."

"Shut up, Sam.") they arrived nearly twenty minutes late for their shift. This would probably be cause for immediate termination, except the manager is far too busy to do anything more than shove a couple aprons at them and order them to make themselves useful.

It's less of an orientation than Kurt was hoping for.

Which wouldn't be a problem if the cash register didn't vaguely resemble a TARDIS and _oh god, he was turning into Sam._

"One minute," he pleads as he henpecks random keys hopefully.

"Take all the time you need," a deep voice purrs, way too close for appropriate customer service.

"Whoa, back up there sail—Blaine!" Blaine laughs and leans over the counter to peck him on the cheek.

"You're working here now?"

"No, thought I'd fill the void show business left in my life by entering the turning to crime. Unfortunately the technology is thwarting me."

"Hm. I hear that's what did Bonnie and Clyde in too."

A customer clucks her tongue behind Blaine and Kurt holds up a hand to shush her. Honestly, people could be so rude.

"Right. Well can I get you anything, sir?"

Blaine places a ridiculously complicated order that has the register rebelling yet again and Kurt swats him over the head. He's missed this. Perhaps the world outside his couch has something to offer after all.

"When does your shift end?" Blaine asks, fingering his apron seductively.

"Seven."

"I'll swing by around 7:30. I do so love a man in uniform."

With that Blaine swans out of the coffee shop in an exit that is as dramatic as it is impractical. His iced vanilla whatever lies untouched on the counter.

Kurt allows himself a moment to stare after his boyfriend. He does so love it when fights get resolved without his ever having to apologize.

Then Finn drops a handful of dishes and the lady next in line barks her order at him and its back to the salt mines.

xx

For some reason, Blaine seems to be under the impression that acquiring a minimum wage job serving overpriced caffeinated beverages to his friends and enemies alike foreshadowed a marked improvement in Kurt's state of mind.

Really, Kurt doesn't see how this was anyone's fault but Blaine's.

"I'm not cut out for manual labor," he complains into his boyfriend's shoulder.

"You're serving coffee," Blaine points out, as though this is in any way relevant. But just then his hand slips down under Kurt's belt and he loses his train of thought.

"Uh. Guys."

"Do you _mind?" _Finn scampers away, but the damage is done. Blaine sits up immediately and moves to the other side of the couch. It's dreadful.

"Do you think maybe we should continue this in your bedroom?" Blaine's fixing him with that look that usually makes Kurt drop whatever he's doing and agree. This time, however.

"It's…occupied."

"By what?" Blaine seems genuinely curious. Kurt is not yet so lacking in self-awareness that he doesn't know that explaining this will turn out badly.

"Um. Sam uses it to jerk off."

He has no idea where that came from.

"Oh. Gross."

"Indeed."

"Doesn't he have is own room for that?"

"He likes the smell of my sheets."

Well then, add compulsive liar to the ever-growing list of attractive personality trains of one Kurt Hummel.

"That's. Uh."

He is so not getting laid tonight.

"I'm really very proud of you, Kurt." This is such an abrupt change of subject it takes him a minute to realize Blaine isn't referring to his taste in scented fabric softener.

"…Thanks?"

"I know not getting into NYADA" Kurt wonders if it would be immature to stick his fingers in his ears and shout 'lalala' until this topic is past. Probably. "was hard on you, but seeing you bounce back like this, it's really incredible. You're the strongest person I know."

The sincerity in his eyes is almost too much to bear. Kurt has the sudden desire to spill everything just to make that look go away, to say _no, no you've got it all wrong, I haven't eaten anything that wasn't 65% sugar in two weeks, and I bonded with Noah Puckerman, and the only reason I got a job was because I was coerced and I watched six seasons of Desperate Housewives since you left and I've surrendered my bedroom to a dead bee and I haven't spoken to my best friend in weeks and sometimes I dream about slitting her throat in a production of Sweeney Todd and it's mostly a nightmare except sometimes it's a fantasy and I'm starting to break out on my chin because moisturizing is too much effort these days and_

Instead he says: "You know me, I'm a survivor," and Blaine kisses him on the forehead and Kurt falls back onto the cushions the minute the door shuts.

xx

"Kurt. Kurt. _Kurt."_

Kurt groans and rolls over. "Mmph."

"Wake up."

He opens his eyes to see Finn crouching over him. "Whassa matter?" he slurs, his tongue heavy with sleep.

"What would you do. If I woke up as a bug."

"Oh you've _got to be kidding me."_

"Because the guy in the book, his family was super unhelpful."

"I hate you, I hate you so much."

"Please. What would you do?" Finn looks so lost in that moment, the moonlight casting shadows on his cheeks, and Kurt can smell the faint scent of alcohol lacing his breath and can just make out red-rimmed eyes tinged with desperation. He props himself up on the pillows and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"Well. I suppose I'd do what I've always done for you."

"Which is?"

"Feed you."

Finn stares at him for a moment, then his face breaks out into a watery grin. "Oh. Well that makes sense."

They end up watching Austin Powers and drinking tequila shots until three in the morning, Finn's legs splayed out on the coffee table and Kurt's wrist hanging limply over his chest.

"I'd buy you clothes," Kurt hears as his eyes droop closed to the tune of gunfire and maniacal laughter. "Special bug clothes."

There has to be something supremely wrong with him that Kurt finds this touching, so he just burrows his head into a deodorant scented pillow to hide his smile.


End file.
